Facade
by Nightmare Prince
Summary: Vows made in war are rarely kept in peace . . .


**Façade**

* * *

 _Vows made in storms are forgotten in the calm._

* * *

. **o0o**.

"I'll be working late tonight," he says, his voice just a little unsteady. "Pierce wants me to finish up all my outstanding paperwork."

She nods by way of response, her expression neutral as she skims the Daily Prophet. There's a slight hollowness in her eyes, one that he doesn't miss, but he dismisses the notion at once. She's been busy at work herself, and it's no secret that his wife's growing disillusioned with her job.

He wants to support her; he does . . . but he doesn't know how. Hers is a futile mission, and she needs to figure that out for herself.

"I'll see you in the morning then, sweetheart." The endearment rings false to his ears, and he can only imagine how it sounds to her, but she simply nods again. Recognizing that he isn't likely to hear her voice today, he turns on his heel and heads for the fireplace.

A muffled sob reaches his ears, and he pauses. His lips mesh together in a thin line, and he screws up his eyes to get a hold of himself before continuing.

Deep down, he knows that she knows, but he convinces himself that she doesn't care.

 **.o0o.**

The Auror Office is bustling that morning. There's a thrill of excitement in the air, and the first thing he does upon checking in is to try and discover the root of the disturbance.

It doesn't take him long.

There's a bouquet of blue balloons floating above Harry's desk, and his best friend's grinning face is smudged with frosting. Their colleagues are laughing, congratulatory remarks flowing freely through the office. Even their boss, Rhea Pierce, known for her stoic nature, is beaming. He feels his stomach tighten at the sight of her, but before he can react, Harry's clapping him on the back.

"The Healer says it's going to be a boy, mate!" Harry exclaims, dabbing at the frosting with a paper towel.

"Congratulations," he replies, forcing a smile on his face. Dimly, he can recall Hermione mentioning over breakfast a few weeks ago that Ginny's expecting, and it strikes him that he's forgotten something so important.

How much else has he missed?

"Everything alright, Ron?" asks Terry, coming up beside him and frowning. Harry's already been whisked away by a few of the other Aurors, so he takes a deep breath and turns to face his friend.

"Everything's fine," he lies and fights not to flinch at the questioning spark in the Ravenclaw's eyes.

He'll lie, again and again, and as often as need be . . . or at least, until he can convince himself that yes, everything is fine.

 **.o0o.**

He straightens his tie as he walks up to his porch, running a hand through his hair to make it appear less dishevelled. It's a plain house located in a mostly Muggle suburb, with a white picket fence and an apple tree outside the kitchen window, and all he can think is that it's a lie.

Opening the door, he showers and brushes his teeth, preparing for bed. It's become a routine to go about the motions and pretend that nothing's wrong, but sometimes, at times like these, when the scalding water is pounding at his back, he wonders if he'll ever get tired of this charade.

She's lying on her back when he walks into the bedroom, and she looks peaceful. His lip trembles. Climbing into bed, he turns on his side to face her and moves to take her hand in an attempt to regain some semblance of normalcy.

Her hand pulls away and she rolls onto her side so that her back's facing him, and he can only blame himself for the whimper that escapes her lips.

Again, he lies to himself and says that she doesn't care because if she did, she'll speak up. He's sure she will, and that can only mean that she's fine with his actions. His gut clenches at the thought, and then he closes his eyes.

She seems to be fine with the bed he's made, so there's no point in regretting the sheets he chose.

 **.o0o.**

One kiss turns to two, and then to three, and he forgets what he's come here to do. Clothes are shed, and they're falling back into Rhea's bed, with her fingernails dragging down his spine. It's a tangle of sheets and whispered words, of harsh cries and lusty moans, and before the hours were done they're both lying exhausted and spent.

The guilt wells inside of him as he lies back against the pillows, a carnivorous beast that seeks to consume all else that he feels. It's been months . . . and his relationship with his wife is virtually non-existent. They pretend to be happy around their family and friends, but Hermione's simply throwing herself into her work, and he's too much of a coward to confess to what she already knows.

He's unfaithful. She's avoiding the problem. They're two messed up people trying to put on a fool's façade . . . and yet, he's happy with Rhea. He loves his wife . . . at least, he thinks he does, but being with Rhea is just so much easier.

It's so much more natural.

He just doesn't want to be the person who causes Hermione to die a little more inside with every passing day. Their story is an old one, a friendship that goes back decades. A romance which bloomed in the shadows of the war, and for all that, it just doesn't seem strong enough to survive the peace.

Yet, the easy path is not the path for him . . . in his heart he's always known which is the right one.

"Ron, what's wrong with you?" Rhea asks, raising an eyebrow as she looks up at him.

"I'm . . . I think . . . I think it's time we ended this."

The ensuing fight ends with his nose being broken by his mistress.

 **.o0o.**

"Hermione . . . We need to talk."

The house is quiet, save for the howling of the wind. He plucks up his courage and looks up from his uneaten plate of spaghetti. Her eyes remain downcast and fixed upon her food, and even in the hollow depths, he can make out a spark of hope.

It's time for him to ignite that spark once more, and to rekindle their romance.

"I'm sorry," he says, when she makes no move to respond. He notices the way her fingers tighten on her fork, the knuckles white against the steel, and he swallows. When there's no answer, he returns to poking at his food, shifting it around the plate because his stomach is churning to violently for him to eat.

Seconds pass, then minutes, and finally, when he fears that there's no turning back from the road he's taken, she looks up.

"For what?" she asks, her voice mild, but he knows her well enough to recognise the barely concealed bite.

"You know what," he mumbles.

"No, I can't say that I do. Why don't you explain to me what it is I need to forgive you for, Ronald?" Tears glimmer in the corners of his eyes, and he hates himself for what he's put her through. He knows he deserves this from her – she's been Hermione Granger for decades before becoming his bride, and he's learned that Grangers never make things easy.

"Is it not enough for me to say I'm sorry?"

"I. Want. To. Hear. You. Say. It," she replies through gritted teeth, and this time, her eyes more than glimmer with tears. They run down her cheeks, staining the hems of her blouse, and he knows this is nobody's fault but his.

"I'm sorry that I wasn't faithful . . ."

 **.o0o.**

He thinks that things are working out.

The frostiness between them is melting, slowly but surely, and although he knows that she will never trust him as once did, he's willing to take what she has to offer. They're rebuilding, and the picket fence feels whiter with every passing day.

Dinners are eaten together, and there's amicable chatter between them both. It's genuine rather than forced, and she lets him hold her hands from time to time.

There're hugs and chaste kisses, and he wonders why it is that he ever felt the need to find solace in another's arms.

Six months pass, and he realises what the problem is. It isn't Hermione. It isn't anything that she does. It's just that for all their history, she often bores him without meaning too.

They're from two different worlds – but he can't hurt her, not again, not with news like this.

So he'll just put on a new façade. It's something he's become a master off.

 **.o0o.**

It's a month later when he crosses paths with an old flame.

Lavender Brown, briefly Finnigan, is to Hermione what water is to fire. They're polar opposites, and it's that which attracted to her all those years ago. She looks good; divorce doesn't seem to have marked her, and the sight of her ample cleavage is enough to make him feel things he isn't sure he wants to.

It begins with a case he's working, one that involves an interview with her regarding a former employee of the company she now works in. The interview goes well, and they hit it off as if no time has passed since their Hogwarts days, but soon enough she invites him to join her for a drink.

He knows he shouldn't.

He goes anyway.

One drink turns to two, and then three, and before long it turns into something all too familiar in an alley behind the Leaky. It's fast, crazy, and as intense as it gets, and it's only after that he realises what he's done.

So he takes a deep breath and flicks his wand to dispel the stench of alcohol from his breath, tidies himself, and after kicking the wall till his foot aches, he apparates home. She's waiting for him, a worried expression on her face, and he thinks that hurts the most.

He can come clean now, but what will be the point. Tonight's a one-time deal, after all, and he'll stay faithful for the rest of his life. It's better that she live in ignorance – because it is indeed the best kind of bliss.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. My interview with the victims ran a little late."

She nods, a tad tremulously, and as he walks past her she stiffens. He sucks in a breath and instantly realises his mistake.

He's vanished the smell of liquor, but not the scent of Lavender's perfume.

 **.o0o.**

These days, he wakes up to an empty bed. She's usually already at work by the time he wakes, pulling long hours in an effort to limit the time she has to spend with him.

Despite her ire, there's always a plate of breakfast for him in the microwave, and sandwiches in his lunchbox. She's a saint, honestly, she is, as any other woman in the world would have likely thrown him out on his arse by now.

He doesn't think he can apologise for this one. Their marriage is broken, he's broken it . . . but for some reason, she still cares.

Maybe it's not too late for him to try and make things right.

She's in Diagon today. He thinks. Vaguely, he remembers that she's mentioned needing to take the morning off work to stock up on potions ingredients. It's another crime to lay at his feet . . . the number of sleep and headache potions she's been taking have only been going up in the weeks since Lavender.

Getting dressed, and knowing that Harry will allow him the time off this once, he steps grabs his wallet and wand, and heads to the fireplace.

It's a warm day and the street is bustling with kids and their parents doing last minute school shopping. He wonders how many of these families are hiding their own skeletons; how many of these perfect marriages are also masking infidelity and other sins? Surely, his relationship can't be the only one that's going down the drain.

After a half hour of searching, he finds her, sitting at Fortescue's and dipping her spoon into an ice-cream sundae. He's about to cross the street and join her when he sees that she's not alone – no, she's got a man at the table, and she's smiling at what he has to say.

The man is vaguely familiar, dark-haired and tan, but he doesn't want to jump to conclusions. This could simply be a meeting of friends or colleagues who've bumped into each other, and even if it's something more, he think he's lost the right to judge her.

After all, it's not her fault she's has to turn to someone other than her husband for comfort.

 **.o0o.**

Penelope is a woman known for her brains and not her beauty, and it's made her one of the most highly sought after realtors in the Wizarding World. Her intelligence and ability to think fast on her feet are what allows her to close deals that very few can, and he thinks that maybe that's what attracted him to her when they first bumped into each other in the atrium.

It's a glimmer compared to what he's lost, because he doesn't think any can compare to Hermione when it comes to being smart, but it's enough.

As they twist and writhe upon the cotton sheets, he can't help the guilt which twists his gut into an uncomfortable knot. It's not his fault, he tries to reason, if his wife can stray than so can he, and he doesn't want to listen to the voice inside his head that says he's simply reaping what he's sown.

Two wrongs don't make a right, as his mother always says.

 **.o0o.**

"Who was it this time?" Her voice is hard, like steel, and she's standing at the kitchen island with an expression that could burn holes in concrete.

"What are you talking about?" He tries to dodge, though once again, he can tell that she knows, and something lets him know that she's not even using Legilimency to find out his deepest, darkest secrets.

"Don't lie to me, Ronald. Please, after all this time, after all these lies, don't look me right in the eye and lie to me again."

Her voice is so earnest, so pained, that he can't help but let the burgeoning guilt burst forth, and then there are tears stinging at his eyes. Letting out a cry that's half a howl and half a shriek, he slams his hand down on the table, and screams,

"What about you? What about your date last week? Who's he? Is that why you've been so OK with what I've been doing? You've been doing the exact same thing, haven't you?"

He barely misses the plate aimed at his head, and as the glass shatters, so does she. She's screaming at him like she's never done before, and he watches, dumbfounded, and years of suppressed rage crashes over him.

"How dare you! I saw you at Diagon last week, staring at me with that jealous glint in your eyes. I could have told you that Blaise and I are just friends who work in the same department. I could have told you that I ran into him at the apothecary and that he insisted on buying me a sundae to congratulate me on my promotion. But you know what. I didn't – I wanted you to feel just a little bit of what you've made me feel for all these years. I wanted you to hurt if only just a fraction of what I've been through."

Tears are streaming down her face, her hands are trembling, and now he's dodging again. This time, it's a cup that's flying through the air, missing him by about an inch and smashing against the door. Shards of glass prick at the back of his neck as they rebound across the room, and he realises that her magic is flaring in a way it rarely does in trained adults.

"And even then, even when you have an inkling of the agony you've put me through; you go out and do it all over again with another of your whores!"

He tries to rebuff her, to placate her, to try and calm her down, but this is the storm that been brewing for years and trying to tame it is like trying to capture the sun. So he bears it as best he can, dodging the flying crockery, the hexes that burst out of her fingertips, all the while trying his best to tune out her screams.

After what feels like hours, she slumps to the ground, a haggard, exhausted look on her face. He moves to help her up, to at least get her to a chair, but she merely glares at him and staggers up on her own. Taking a deep breath and looking as though she wants to say more, she shakes her head and walks away, slamming the kitchen door behind her.

It's the first night that he spends on the couch. It isn't the last.

 **.o0o.**

They live this farce for a week more. It's an odd sort of melancholy, a routine that involves them both going on with their days without speaking a single word to the other.

He slides deeper into his debauchery, seeking comfort and consolation from a stranger rather than doing the right thing and trying to get it from his wife. For her part, he hears her crying in what is now her bedroom at night, and she's been going through the headache potions and wine at an alarming rate.

It's his fault, and it's the guilt that eats him alive and tricks him into making more mistakes.

Then, it all comes to a head one night when he finds her waiting for him in the backyard. The apples are glossy and red, stark against the leaves, and it reminds him of happier times. He remembers her face when he first showed her this house, this yard, and he thinks of the plans they made together.

For once, it's him that speaks first. He owes her that much, at the very least.

"I understand why you stayed with me for the first time, but why are you still here now?"

"The first time you cheated on me, I chose to stay because of all the things that you did right, and I chose to ignore the one thing you did wrong. The second time . . . I'm not going to lie, I was ready to leave you. I had my bags packed and everything.

I chose not to. Because I loved you, Ronald Weasley. I loved you more than I loved myself, and I remembered the day we were married. We both made vows, and the only difference is, I chose to keep mine."

"Hermione," he pleads, his fists clenched. "Just give me one more chance. I promise I'll do better this time." Even as he speaks the words he knows that it's futile, that he's out of chances. He remembers those moments as well, the first date, the proposal, the wedding . . . he remembers it all. He remembers their kiss during the chaos of the final battle of the Second Wizarding War, and he remembers how they came to love each other whilst dodging death at every turn.

It's the first time, now, as he looks at the two of them sitting in the back garden of a broken home like two miserable strangers in the night that he begins to question if he, despite loving her, was ever in love with her.

"I can't, Ron." She sighs. "I don't think I have the strength to dance this dance for another song."

He nods, his throat clenching, but he wills his face to display indifference. This one last time, at least, he can wear a final façade, and pretend that they both want the same thing.


End file.
